Many Words

A machine gun rattled again, throwing dancing shadows past Masaracchia. Through her hand, Masaracchia felt Iseabail turn around. She said nothing, though, and they pushed on through the veiling darkness and its unsettling soundscape.

The cross twitched on its chain, and Masaracchia stopped. Sliding his foot forward, he found a wall—no, a stair. “Watch the steps.”

Iseabail and di Giacomo followed him, cursing occasionally as they stubbed toes on the risers. Masaracchia counted the steps. At forty-one, his foot fell through where the stair ought to have been, and he landed heavily at the top of the flight. “Careful.”

“We’ll wait three minutes before we go back ta find the cap’n,” Iseabail resolved. “I’m countin’.”

She’d just said, “Thirty seconds left,” when, from the base of the stairs, Cannon called, “Are you up there?”

“Aye, cap’n!” Iseabail shouted back. “Good tae hear ye werena kilt. Get up here so we can leave, aye?”

“No argument here!”

Cannon and Burr climbed the stairs. Atop the dais, it was a little quieter; the howls and groans filling the chamber reached the raised platform mainly as echoes. Cannon could make himself heard without raising his voice. “Everyone’s here?” He got four yesses and continued. “All right. The way out is right over there, on the opposite wall. We’ll spread out and find it, then try another torch once we’re through. If that doesn’t work, we’ll have to climb the cave-ins and dodge the poison darts in the dark.”

“I’d nae look forward tae that.”

“I wouldn’t either. Let’s go.”

Experimentally, Masaracchia let the cross swing on its chain. It settled to hang straight down. Worth a try, he thought, looping the chain around his belt and dropping the cross through it. God certainly provided directly in times of desperate need, but He had also been known to work through people at least as unlikely as a gang of pirates.

“Captain?” Burr said, urgency in her voice.

“Here,” said Cannon.

The thing which had hit him moved. It rasped as it did, like a snake moving through dry grass.

“What’s the plan?” said Burr.

“Shoot it.”

Burr promptly complied, spraying bullets in the direction of the sound. In the light from the Thompson’s muzzle, Cannon caught a glimpse of it. Man-shaped, it was getting to its feet. Its face was hollow and sunken, and its garments trailed ragged strips. It jumped as bullets hit it, produced an inhuman screech, and fell away. The Thompson clicked and the light faded, and all was dark again.

“Cultists,” Cannon said, as echoing, bone-chilling cries answered the creature’s dying call. “I thought so.” Closer than before, metal clattered off metal, and one shriek answered another. “Come on.”

Staccato flashes pierced the darkness. The strobing light gave the scene a feel like an old Chaplin flick. Three rows to the left, Cannon thought, and they could make a right turn and follow the aisle between the sarcophagi all the way to the stairs.

Movement drew his eye. Three people, the rest of his crew, hustled along. Another figure staggered toward them—and the Thompson, empty, clicked in his hand.

“You saw more than just the others, too, right?” said Burr.

“Yes.” Cannon held the Thompson out in her direction. “Take this, put your hand on my shoulder, and let’s ankle.”

The flickering of the muzzle flashes briefly revealed Iseabail’s face: her brow furrowed as she looked over her shoulder. “Tha’ sounds serious,” she said, raising her voice over the chorus of tortured sounds filling the chamber.

Ahead of her, Masaracchia said, “The captain and Miss Burr are formidable enough. We aren’t nearly so well armed—only Pietro’s pistol. If we go back now and they reach the rendezvous, they might decide to look for us. We ought to give them a minute to catch up first.”

“All righ’,” Iseabail said doubtfully. “If they dinna turn up after a wee bit, we go back an’ find them.”

“I don’t think that to be wise,” said Masaracchia.

“Naebody died an’ made you boss,” Iseabail snapped. “The cap’n wou’ do it for any of us.”

Cannon turned right and felt for the sarcophagus which marked the edge of the path to the stairs. He touched cool stone, then the figurine he’d seen topping the coffin. “Ready,” he said.

“Let me reload first.” A steel magazine clattered against the cavern floor, and metal slit against metal as Burr worked the charging handle. “All right.”

Cannon felt her hand settle onto his shoulder, and he said, “We’ll take three steps left, then head down the row as fast as we can manage.”

“Sure thing.”

The fastest they could manage turned out to be a slow run. Between keeping the Thompson at the ready and sticking close to Cannon in the enveloping darkness, Burr could go no faster. As the ringing in Cannon’s ears died away, he became aware of a new aspect to the din around them, metallic clanks and rasps.

Suddenly, something slammed into his side, throwing Burr’s hand from his shoulder. It dragged at his khaki shirt and fell to the ground with a thump. Cannon stumbled to a stop.